The Untitled Series

Hear me in the unsung,

Pull me out from under the tide.

Midsummer's dry spell whisked her way down George street,

There you could hear dry leaves scrape curbs, even through the last call waltz,

As we walked arm in arm, startled by the dark and the hidden,

But midsummer has her way of whispering, and whisking,

If it were cold, then there’d be danger, but it’s warm, your sleeves are stuck to your collarbones, and the river beckons tonight,

for pleasure it calls, not for the wild and unflinching tides of melt.

Crouched between sidewalk cracks and leaning apartments, rot away from old wood, and termites.

Pull me up out of the ditch, brush off my moss, and swat away at the plumes of gnats.

I’ve not fallen, only travelled.

The housefly carries rot on his wings, I’ve bleached my sheets seven times today, and still the spoiled milk and moldy peach are lingering.